Circle

If I concentrate, focus extra hard,
I can see the blades of grass straining their way up to the sun
Feel the tiniest reverberation of each grain of sand as it lands at the bottom
You’d think it would make a difference but
Each interminable meeting ends in solutions with no project manager,
And my voice too small to speak.
And so it goes, each day, each week, month,
The years go by,
Empty promises filling empty pit,
Empty accounting and empty words
Silence eating me alive from the inside out
And I smile for you even as my last molar crumbles to dust

Door

A saturated, dense mist encased us that night
Encased everything, really
So much so that even the big house,
Stately,
Imposing,
Disappeared all sixty thousand square feet into the muted impressionist curtain that descended upon us
We had too little instruction before venturing out
Underground in damp wasted tunnels
Overground through barbed wire portals and cracked tiles
Vibrating with a ponderous, fearful sort of energy,
Giggling sometimes to cut the silence and pretend it was day
A letter in the half-light cast by battered cell phones,
Michael pouring his heart out in careful block letters
The daily drudgery of his tasks behind the big house, an essential certification,
The pain of wondering whether different choices would have distilled him or stilled the consequences
A door barked shut, sending tumbling the stop
And we perhaps perceived the acute agony of a three-footed wolf or headless bride,
Languishing in eternity among the tattered congealed paint cans and the graffiti of time and interest
Either way,
We sailed out into the dark, somehow safer,
But still it calls to me
What sat behind me at chapel
And pressed its void against me in cell 27
Someday I’ll return
So we can chat

Suit

Once
I asked my wise mother
The age at which we become adults
- Not the arbitrary one -
- Because at 16 or 18 or 21 we are universal idiots -
And with a soft chuckle, she let me in on the secret
All of us
We are stunted and stopped
The buckets we carry as almost-adults,
They fill and fill,
They do not empty.
And so our shoulders must bulge and grow to carry the weight of our lives
The best of us adjust our grip, or find others with whom to share the burden
Of vessels which cannot tip out
No thing loved or dreaded or expelled or vaunted or vilified ever leaves us,
But simply papers in layered creases under the crush of the next and the next and the next
We can never expand or contract enough to fit snugly into the suits we bought for ourselves

Invention

It’s this thing I do,
Perhaps a singular trait,
Painting my thoughts with the feelings I wish I’d had.
In minor moments, I quietly explode
All the way out to the edges of the galaxy,
Or, if I’m feeling particularly infinite, the stretched, perpetually reaching fingers of the universe
Cerebral shrapnel which, though vast and of both massive quantity and distinction,
Is as organized as a freshly trimmed shrub maze.
I used to wonder what my calling might be,
Why I could never settle like a tea cup into its intended saucer,
Porcelain edges rattling, messily kissing with teeth, before lifting off again to quench the next thirst
Not indecision, exactly,
Dissatisfaction with the final fitting.
No truly real thing could ever bear the weight of the fat, golden glow which rests over the pieces I fruitlessly belabor,
The cruel, comforting obsession from which I don’t want to be saved
But oh!
The velvety soft pile cries out to be caressed,
And, as my fingers are currently uninvolved, they run fervent currents through rivers of fibers
They will worry and never rest

Drive

Coming home that day, I was tired
From the drudgery,
But the sun still shone
Unaware that cloud cover is more appropriate for a rant
And it warmed the parched grass so pleasantly that it scooped a little edge off,
Just enough to imperceptibly soften
And so I said yes.
And we flew frivolously
Frenetically
As the fields kissed our periphery
Music washed tinnily over us as the wind pushed scattered notes over our giggling heads
I yelled out the words when I could discern the key through the rush
And as I turned my head to let them fall behind us
I glimpsed the earth as a vast, dark and fuzzy orb,
An ink blot in the dying afternoon,
The edges of the trees congealing into intricate shoots of blackest pitch,
And through the cracks the sun’s reluctance to hand off the day shot flames of orange and red
Touches of pink
And suddenly a great roiling wave, almost a tongue, thick and muscular
Unfurled itself from the depths
And I was undone
You didn’t see
Those minutes I was crippled by joy,
By those rare, precious, present moments saturated by not just Enough
But
Perfect.
Fat tears raced to catch up to the words tumbling down the road
As our fingers interlaced
Dancing together as the gearbox screamed

Eye

The other day
I awoke with a searing pain in my right eye
Similar to the sensation of stirring early and having to pry annealed lids up, except
Much.
Worse.
In the mirror I saw
My eye
But
Swollen?
Red
Cue the rinse and drops, but no joy.
”That was my long-distance eye!”
I lamented,
While offering platitudes to the other,
Whose close-up service was appreciated that much extra considering its fallen brother.
Pain meds, darkness, some sleep -
For an EYE? geez -
Two days ‘til “normal”
(If that’s a word I’m permitted to have in my lexicon)
But
You know
The blurriness faded away
But
I don’t see any clearer

Sometimes

Sometimes when I think about what could have been
My supernova chest burns white hot
Through my lungs into my back,
A tiny taste of oblivion
I wonder if anyone else can see when it washes over me
Almost bowls me over with imagined nostalgia
And although I know it’s coming
I find myself surprised.
Expectation that never turns into preparation
That particular and peculiar searing pain, wrapped in the most acute joy, and yet the paper falls away before I can touch the seam
And I think
When I’m ancient
This is what I want to remember my life having been
Instead of what it was

Why Mama Bear Culture Is Both Toxic and Yucky

Liz here again for another of her Hot Takes (tm). This will probably get ranty but I also think that’s par for the course in this wacky post-pandemic pre-pocalypse world.

We’ve all heard the phrase. “Mama Bear.” Rather than conjuring images of a majestic beast protecting her precious cubs, it smacks of all the worst trappings associated with a basic bitch. A basic bitch who is, perhaps, a beast, but never majestic.

Taking on the Mama Bear mantle bestows upon the wearer the bulletproof illusion that she is THE BEST PARENT IN THE UNIVERSE. No one could ever protect her children as Mama Bear does. Her children are shining examples of personhood, perfect little gems who could never do wrong! This is a good thing, because much of Mama Bear’s time is spent:
Stopping at Starbucks
Wiping her Uggs
Perfecting her vocal fry
Yogaaaaaaa
Starby’s again!
Emailing threats to teachers (until Mama Bear decides that no one is clever enough to teach her perfect li’l creatures and moves into home-schooling territory)
Haranguing her husband
Making grammatically incorrect tumblers with her Cricut to hold her and her friends’ wine at children’s sporting endeavors
Feelin’ a little peaked, gonna hit the Starby’s
Mommy blogging
Terrifying other drivers on the road in her minivan/SUV which is far too large for her park effectively and is peppered with orthodontist and stick-figure family stickers

Rest assured that this list is not exhaustive. The Mama Bear will go to extremes to ensure everyone around her knows just how amazing she is, how tiring it is to constantly advocate for her children (whether they need it or not), how little time she has for herself in between running the precious rugrats to the myriad activities for which she herself has signed them up (and in which they probably lost interest four years ago, but “WE AREN’T QUITTERS” - Mama Bear).
The Mama Bear’s husband is barely functional. Just ask Mama Bear. He works a high-level job (if Mama Bear is lucky) to provide for Mama Bear’s “needs” (which include being a stay-at-home mom), but he doesn’t take initiative and she HAS TO DO EVERYTHING AROUND THE HOUSE, LIKE, ARE YOU KIDDING. Conversations with her Mama Buddies bounce between talking up everyone’s various and inevitably annoying-as-fuck crotch fruit, and discussing how stupid and useless their husbands are.
At the end of the day, Mama Bear is just Karen with a Kid.
What Mama Bears don’t realize is that….. ALL (involved and mostly mentally well) PARENTS LOVE THEIR KIDS. Like, I would die for my kids. I won’t make phone calls to schedule appointments for myself, but you better believe I’ll be on the phone if they need something. Because I’m a mom, and they’re my kids.
The only difference between Mama Bears and moms is that when my kids grow up and start living their own lives, I won’t have an existential crisis due to defining myself by the creatures I made the same way humanity has been procreating for thousands of years now.
If the above doesn’t pertain to you, then you’re not a Mama Bear. Let’s start recognizing it for the insult it is and stop using it as anything else.
Thanks for coming to my stupid Ted Talk.

Silence

It’s your silence I can’t abide
The close-lipped glance of pity at my pain
Your busy mouth suddenly stopped to take in the fullness of my anguish
Struggling to regain composure,
I plaster the smile back on to save you
(Just what you want)
Flopping heavily back on my filth mountain to clumsily stave off another eruption
Tired hands go back to tidying the detritus from your other life in wonder at how a creature which has been crushed so small could somehow be so vast,
And how so vast a creature could disappear
You will never love me like I love you
Not quantity
The difference
Tick tock tick tock tick tock
The tempo of my trudging dirge

Three More Days

I had three more days
72 hours in my sparkling, delusional cocoon
Before spreading mangled wings and stepping back into the mire of congealed and
Dead
Decayed
Hope
Like standing in a vast, sterile room that echoes in my ear all the dirty twisted vile concoctions of OtherMe at her most desperate, most dire
He’s just waiting out the inevitable clock
She’s mostly dead anyway
When is mental illness not mental illness?
When it’s the agonizing pain of truth?
Crushing weight somehow from the floor up
Swallowing from below as I gasp above
No hands to grasp but my own mutinous claws which stretch only to wrap about me again
I see his face as his mouth moves
Enough to say
It doesn’t really matter anyway
Now does it

I Cried Myself to Sleep Last Night

Neither first nor last,
The heaving comes
Wave upon ugly wave of angry gasping hiccups and fat teardrops
An attempt to quench
Or fill?
The seeping void
Hands clasp and unclasp over cheek and chin,
Grabbing and clenching at Nothing.
Sometimes I see you, not here, but in the depths of my sleep.
Never enough to hold,
Never to wake with hands and heart full.
”Wait, Mama.”
Each day brings less
less hope
les hop
le ho
l h
lh
l

A shift, a rebalance of joy crammed untidily into the Other Bucket,
Which wrought-out lid no longer closes
(It never really did, she thought)
To be supplanted by more gray,
Like some long-forgotten dumplings
Cooked down to gummy clouds in a grimy pot
But they do slowly trickle into the spaces between
Almost enough for my belly to feel full,
Or at least
Remember
The
Sensation

A Long-Overdue Update

Geez. It’s been a while. That’s not exactly NOT par for the course for this blog, but each time I write something, I promise myself I won’t go so long before writing something else. I’d like to say that old cliché “life gets in the way",” but it’s more akin to “my life is a perpetual struggle of trying to manage ADHD and depression which manifest in such helpful ways as the urge to sit on the couch and binge mindless tv so I don’t have to inevitably fail at whatever I set out to do.” I’m working on it, okay?

So, after the great Bruce Barber Debacle (tm), I took some time off. As someone who has sung for the church since the age of 10-ish, my newfound ability to sleep in or go to brunch on a Sunday morning was just delicious. I truly never thought I’d go back to a church job. Part of that was the glorious freedom of a calendar free from rehearsals and services, but I think a bigger part of that was my feeling that the choir family I cherished and in which I felt safe no longer existed. I was never a particularly religious person and have since pushed into full-on atheism, but I always felt that, as an employee of the Episcopal Church, I was contributing to a church that actually helped humanity. I was proud to be part of a church which I felt was truly accepting of everyone. Even after the previous issues I’d had along the way since Bruce was hired, I never imagined that church leadership would allow everything to play out as it did.

Given that, perhaps I shouldn’t have been shocked that Bruce has faced no consequences for his actions. I knew that the rector was mentally checked-out when she hired him (he was a surprise interim who then weaseled his way into a permanent position with no search for any other options - and against the protests of many choir members), and I knew she had lent zero support when he threw me under the bus. I assumed she wouldn’t have much else to say on the matter.

But… my family? My parents and brother are still there. I don’t know how they do it. My parents are retiring this year, and by all accounts they realize that Bruce is a problem. My brother seems happy to stay and, outwardly at least, takes no issue with the events of early 2020. I’ll be honest, it’s been acutely painful for me to see their continued involvement with the man. With that said, I temper the hurt with the thoughts that: 1. My family is non-confrontational to an unhealthy level, and 2. It’s a job, and the money sure doesn’t hurt. And at the end of the day, I don’t think anyone can reasonably expect anyone else to quit a job in solidarity. Logically, I know that. I try to tell it to my heart a la Taylor Dane (LET ME SEE YOUR BODY ROCK).

I don’t recognize the Christ Church Choir anymore; I haven’t heard them sing since I left. Many members have left or been pushed out. The new group is described as sounding “sterile,” and they are “clique-y.” I think that comes with the territory given the situation. I ran into a lovely man who used to sing with the Christ Church Choir regularly; he gave me a huge hug and teared up as he said, “it’s not what it used to be. It’s not a family anymore.” The new, shiny, young members stick together, and I suppose occasionally condescend to interact with the old guard now and then.

I’m not even sure I have an opinion either way about that. I loved the family we were, but, as I’ve said - it is a job, and I can’t really say it’s necessarily a bad thing if the culture there is moving towards “business-like” in any regard. I can only say that I hope that that includes the church office so that perhaps the monumental ethical issues there might be dealt with.

As for me, I’m doing the thing I thought I’d never do again: working for a church choir.

After a few months off, I happened to notice that my very first choir director was looking for an alto to join his choir. This man laid the foundation for my voice, my musicality, and my love of Anglican music. I knew I could trust him to be an ethical, kind leader. I thought about it for about a day, and then reached out to him. I auditioned, got the job, and here we are.

That lovely man has since retired. His replacement is another lovely, kind man whom I knew from none other than Christ Church. It’s exciting to sing for him and be part of the sound he’s nurturing in the choir. There’s also a familiar grounding for me in being part of a musical group that feels like a family once again. I feel a part of something both special and non-exclusive, and what a gift it is.

After all, even for an atheist like me, it’s more than just a job.

Religion: Yea or Nay?

Or, a very long story during which I am hoist with someone else’s pitard.

It’s been a real weird fucking year. Like, for all of us, I realize, but certainly each of us has singular struggles heaped on top of the dumpster fire of 2020 and onward. 

To be honest, I’ve felt a little guilty throughout the pandemic. Because my kids go to school relatively far away, virtual learning has replaced twice-daily hour-and-a-half commutes every other week. I’m generally quite a homebody, so it has been less of a struggle for me than other, more social folks. I’m also married to someone who I genuinely love and like very much, so the opportunity to spend more time together has been a treasure. 

I’ve also been trying my best to use the newfound non-commuting time to get healthier, generally. After putting on quite a few pounds after my hip replacement a few years ago, I finally feel like I’m on a better track forward. All things considered, my pandemic hasn’t been too shabby. 

There was, however, this… one… thing. 

I’ve been employed by one local church for the last twenty years. Both of my children were baptized there, my family sings there, and I have considered my choir family just that - a family. 

Now, let me be clear. I love music, I especially love Anglican choir music, and I love some parts of the Episcopal services (Evensong, especially). I do not, however, consider myself especially religious or even spiritual. You could call me a lazy atheist, perhaps. I could get on board with some sort of unifying force in the universe, but if you expect me to believe in a man with a beard in the sky and that an actual virgin gave birth and that a human being died and came back to life three days later, you should settle in for a good long wait. 

With that said, I can’t deny that there were times when I felt especially open and reaching out for something, and could almost convince myself that something was there, something intangible and beautiful. This is my long-winded way of saying: I don’t believe in God, but my experiences singing choral music have given me a taste of the “spiritual,” or as close to that as I have felt. 

My father is a fabulous organist and possessed of a rich, chestnut baritone voice. I have heard my mother sing all my life, and one of her solos can still bring me to tears. Suffice to say, my brother and I were raised with church music. As children, we attended a different church from my parents. They were both employed at the local Methodist church, which didn’t offer a children’s choir, so Matt and I spent our formative years at an Episcopal church with fabulous boys’ and girls’ choirs. The church is so woven into the fabric of our lives and family that it has always felt like a given to me, no matter my own beliefs. 

You might recall a particularly contentious election from a few months back. You know, the one where the shining Delawarean knight defeated the heinous orange cheeto. You may have also noticed that folks have put a lot of insensitive stuff onto the interwebs, memes-n-thangs about the insurrection at the Capitol, Agolf Twitler, Nazis, all that kind of fun stuff. 

How do these two disparate things connect, you ask? WELL. Let me spin you a tale, children (picture an old, 40-ish crone rubbing her very dry winter hands together). 

I have a master of jurisprudence degree in compliance. I have a pretty good idea of the baseline a business needs to run legally and ethically. Most big corporations take that stuff pretty seriously for a lot of reasons, but like everything else that motivates entities beholden to shareholders, it all comes down to money. When you run your business ethically, it saves money long-term, especially in legal fees (or the lack thereof) and customer loyalty. 

Here’s the thing, though: churches aren’t businesses… are they? They don’t pay taxes (which is absolutely asinine, although I won’t expand on that here because no one wants to read all that shit on top of all the shit I’m already writing), but they certainly need revenue to succeed. We can consider the parishioners shareholders, in a way. Unfortunately, churches have been pretty slow to come around to compliance. Without doing a deep dive into data - by which I mean I am sharing an opinion that is coming straight out of my ass and could have literally no foundation in reality - I can reasonably assume that part of that is likely due to the perception of pastors as social workers, in a way. And certainly social workers know how to act ethically, right? 

Not quite. Business ethics are different than personal morals. They’re rooted in the law, and understanding how to run an ethical business takes more than a community college psychology degree - or a doctorate in religion. 

The church where I was employed for the last few decades was not immune to scandal, certainly. It didn’t seem as though anything particularly egregious had happened, but there were some red flags over the years. I never had enough information about the incidents to form an educated opinion about whether they were handled well. That changed when, a few years ago, another church employee made disturbing advances to several women in the church. Not only did this employee remain on staff for some time, at least one of the victims was told to speak with their harasser directly to “sort it out.”

I should have been on higher alert, I guess. And I think I was, in a way, but I was still blindsided by how it all went down. 

On a lovely Sunday afternoon, I received a call from our choir director. I was at the barn, hanging out with my kiddo and about to get on a horse, so I let it go to voicemail. The voicemail he left was fairly innocuous and asked for a call back. 

Later that afternoon, the church rector sent out a scathing email about social media use. The gist of her email was that, as employees, we are all representing the church, even on our private social media accounts. She referenced an employee handbook which none of us had ever seen and certainly had never signed, and requested that we respond with a verbal commitment to temper what we put on social media.

Fun. 

The next morning, I spoke with the choir director. He told me that he believed the impetus for the rector’s email was a meme that I had posted on one of my husband’s Facebook posts (it was, admittedly, in poor taste, but I stand by its content) about the Capitol riot. He also said that he believed the person who had complained was another of our choir members who is a far-right, conservative Trumpster. 

Funner. 

He told me that he had a meeting later that day with the rector. I asked him to confirm with me either way after speaking with her. Later that day, he texted “FYI - I was correct in my assessment across the board.” 

Just buckets o’fun, you know what I’m sayin? 

I gave it some thought. I slept on it. I shed many tears. I decided that it would be best if I simply resigned. I was uncomfortable with the thought of going back and singing alongside this person, trying to pretend they hadn’t thrown me unceremoniously under the bus. I was uncomfortable with the fact that, rather than simply contacting me, the rector found it appropriate to send an email to all employees, setting off days of angst among people who were afraid they were the culprit. I was uncomfortable with the fact that the person who had complained was someone who had no problem putting his colleagues in danger by refusing to wear an appropriate mask when we were together for a recording session. Someone whose far-right views don’t align with the church’s views - at least, I didn’t think they did. 

I emailed my resignation the following morning. The choir director responded later in the afternoon, accepting my resignation. 

I cried. A lot. I talked to my husband, my family, my friends. I cried some more. It felt more like a breakup than a resignation; it felt like giving up a piece of myself, sacrificing something vital and precious for someone or something undeserving of such a sacrifice. The days wore on. 

My dad spoke with the rector. The rector, with some surprise, told him that it was not, in fact, my meme that had triggered the complaint. It was the choir director’s comment.

I’ll repeat that for the folks in the back: No one complained about anything on my social media, THEY COMPLAINED ABOUT THE CHOIR DIRECTOR’S COMMENT. THE SAME CHOIR DIRECTOR WHO TOLD ME I WAS 100% TO BLAME. The same choir director who, even by his own account, has repeatedly been “in trouble” about his social media activity.

Cool, I’m glad you’re all with me. For the record, 99% of what I post on social media is ridiculous memes and cat videos. 

Remember that “this feels like a breakup” thing? Yup, all of that balled up and crashed down on my head anew, with an even healthier helping of “you are the fucking sacrificial lamb, you are the collateral damage no one cares about.” 

After a week of that, I got an email from the rector, copying the choir director, asking to chat. 

Just so that really sinks in, I’d like to again state that, after the rector found out I was told it was my fault, and that it specifically led to my resignation, I heard nothing from anyone for a week. A week. 

We spoke. I cried. She apologized. I said I needed to talk to the choir director to sort things out. She said okay, keep her updated. Okay. 

Now we circle back to my aforementioned aversion to conflict. There was this one time back around 2003 when I worked for a fashion design outfit run by a crazy person, and she was arguing loudly with a salesman next to my desk. I broke out in actual hives. 

So, after hemming and hawing for a few days, I finally decided that I simply don’t owe anyone anything. From my perspective, I was left to have a breakdown, not knowing the true story other than no one seemed to care. That coupled with the known history of this very church responding inappropriately to other situations gives me enough information to know that the high-enough likelihood of this happening again means that I am not safe there. I guard my mental health with my life, because I have to, because depression and anxiety are literally life-threatening. The most difficult pill to swallow (it’s okay for me to make suicide puns tyvm) with this decision is that while I know it’s healthiest for me in the long-term, I have to deal with the immediate hole left by what has always been a constant in my life. I have to live with the knowledge that I may never get to sing the music I love with the people I love ever again, and those who stole that from me neither care nor face consequences. 

I sent one final email to both rector and choir director confirming my intention to resign. It has gone unanswered. Color me surprised. 

I’ve gotten some funny looks over the years when people find out I work for a church. I always felt that, no matter the damage the Christian church has done across human history, I believed in MY church. I didn’t believe in God, but I believed in the message of good, and in the good works I saw in the community. 

I don’t know if I can say that anymore. The older I get, the less useful and more toxic I find religion. I used to think that my own anecdotal evidence was enough for me to believe that it can be helpful, but now I’m not so sure. And remember that compliance thing I mentioned earlier? It wasn’t the women who were harassed, and it won’t be me, but someday, a situation will arise that won’t result in the victims slinking away quietly. I hope that when it happens, the church can look back with keener eyesight, and have the grace be unsurprised. I also hope that by that time, the shareholders will have asked for better. After all, the church is its people more so than any for-profit corporation - or so we’re told.

Be careful, friends. Guard your hearts. And if anyone wants to sing some Howells or Byrd, hit me up. 

Choices

Choices. Our lives are comprised of choices. Thousands upon thousands of choices, inconsequential and life-altering. We make them all day, every day. But what happens when choices are taken away? Who are we, as humans, as individuals, as groups, without choices? Does removing choice remove pieces of us? Does the lack of options make our lives easier, or more difficult? Do too many options, then, make our lives the opposite?

 

Not so long ago, I didn’t have many choices. Not just the life-altering sort, either. Small choices, tiny choices - the choices that don’t matter until you realize you no longer have them to make. I tethered myself to someone who happily took my choices away to fit me into a pre-determined mold. I became a modular person, a carefully created “individual.” Was I me? In a way. I knew who I had been Before. I knew the person I was permitted to Be, even though that person was a foreigner in many respects. Over time, I learned to carefully lay my feelings in an apathy bucket I kept tucked away for just such a purpose. The lid stayed tightly closed, very tightly closed, only opened to add, never to remove.

And yet, full apathy bucket and all, something gnawed at me. Hadn’t I wanted something better for my life? Hadn’t I once been full of dreams and intentions, as we all are? What had I done that I didn’t deserve to want something more? Deserve to make something more?  And perhaps not even more, but something different? A full bucket of any iteration does not necessarily equal a full life, a sated soul. The role into which I had seemingly so easily fallen - glorified housewife with a full-time job, typical chores expected of a woman by a man who couldn’t (wouldn’t) see anything more for his partner - became suddenly an easy albatross. The daily requirements of making lunches, folding laundry, cleaning bathrooms, homemade dinners to be ready at a specific hour - all of these tasks filled my days. My immediate life was easier when they were completed, and so completed they became. It’s far easier to blame the actions than to blame the source of the discomfort, whatever that discomfort may be. I was uncomfortable. I was embarrassed, ashamed of what I had taken on, resentful of what was expected, and increasingly anxious about the choices taken away and the inevitable options thrust upon me. I allowed it.

It dawned on me one day that perhaps I deserved more. Perhaps I could make my own choices, but choosing to choose often means a scourge of the old life. And so I slashed and burned, rising anew, terrified and still ashamed and yet I gloried in the chance to finally make my own choices. It took me a long time to shed the noxious skin of what I perceived to be shameful actions, and slowly I realized that the actions themselves were not shameful. The fact that I allowed those actions to become requirements, rather than choices, was shameful. And so I let it go.

There is a beauty in those simple daily ablutions. There can be pride in a clean house, in a well-made dinner, and even more so in the love put into performing those tasks for yourself, and for those about whom you care unconditionally. When those actions are choices, and when choosing those actions need not preempt spending time with friends and family, or enjoying hobbies, or learning, or any other of the myriad joys of life, they can be a part of the sated soul.

Choice is the only option, my friends. Cling to it tightly, nurture it. Don’t give it away. No one who truly cares for your happiness and their own would take it from you anyway.

 

Charlottesville, neo-Nazis, and it's not always about you

Let me open this post by stating unequivocally: fuck you, Nazis. Fuck you. Hard. You literally have no reason for existing in 2017. I try not to hate you because it just adds more negativity to the world, but goddammit, I just can’t help it. I think a lot of bigoted folks have (or at least, used to have) the common sense enough to keep that shit to themselves, and even if they’re not ashamed of their feelings, know that it’s not looked on favorably, even if they can’t understand why.

Ever since Trump was elected our commander-in-chief, we’ve all seen a tremendous uptick in bigoted people feeling much safer in sharing their racist sentiments with the world. While we all have the odd inappropriate thought or feeling about specific groups of people (I had an English professor who was convinced that every old man in a hat was a terrible driver, based on her own empirical data), it used to be rare that we would seen this dirty laundry aired. Or perhaps I’ve just been living under a rock for most of my life, who knows. These days, I wouldn’t mind crawling back under that sucker from time to time.

This past weekend the world watched as a group of white supremacists wreaked havoc in Charlottesville, VA. I’m not clear as to what their end goal was, but as far as I can ascertain, they had gathered for a “Unite the Right” march, which was, of course, met with resistance from counter-protesters. As literally every human with a brain could have predicted, it devolved from there, with a neo-Nazi driving his vehicle into the crowd, killing one person and wounding myriad others. Our president… the so-called “Leader of the Free World”.... couldn’t bring himself to condemn the white nationalists. So, you know. There’s that. But most of know that this man is a true Fucktard (capitalized for emphasis, obvs).

Here’s my thing. My husband is a brilliant man. I don’t just say that because he is my favorite human and my chosen person in life. He is objectively exceptionally bright. This is a man who grew up with very little, the youngest of nine kids in an epically dysfunctional family, didn’t have the opportunity to go to college, taught himself to write code after a back injury cut short his successful career as a mechanic, and worked his ass off to become CIO of a tech company. He’s no dummy. He also doesn’t tend to mince words, and is very, umm… open… about his opinions. Now let’s add social media to this personal soup. We’re lucky (ish) to live in an age in which information is readily, immediately accessible, and we the public, in turn, have the ability to readily, immediately comment on and share that information.

Since Trump came to power, I’ve noticed a change in my husband and in the way he relates to these news stories. While I generally feel that Trump has been ineffective in most of his endeavours - which is surprising since he spends so little time on a golf course, amirite? - he has been extraordinarily successful in polarizing the citizens of this country, and even of the world. He’s created a country in which you are either “us” or “them.” Whatever that means to you as an individual, you are either “us” or “them.” Maybe that means that you’re either Right or Left, or you’re either Democrat or Republican, or whether you voted for Trump or you voted for someone else (and it seems to those who did vote for Trump, the “them” voted for Clinton, whether or not that finds any real basis in fact). This makes it increasingly difficult for anyone to find common ground, because people are searching to define themselves by what is black and white. Grey area falls by the wayside.

Let’s look at the neo-Nazi douchenozzles, for example. They called their march “Unite the Right.” What a brilliant choice of words - likely unintentional, since I’m not sure white supremacists have a whole lot going on cognitively. But what does this mean? Well, if you’re a Republican, if you voted for Trump, if you identify yourself at all further towards the ubiquitous Right than Left, then surely you identify with the Nazi agenda. I don’t know many people in my circle who voted for Trump, but of the small handful who did, while I don’t understand why they did so, or whether or not they’re terribly happy with his work thus far, I can guarantee you that no one in MY circle is a fucking white supremacist.

So let’s bring it back to my darling hubs. There have been times over the last few years when he’s felt personally attacked by something someone posted on social media (and I think we all have, whether valid or not). As a middle-class white male, certain assumptions are often made. These assumptions may be at least marginally true on a large-scale sampling of middle-class white males, he tends to fall outside most of the accepted truths. He does not see himself as having been privileged, and takes strong offense to anyone trying to tell him that he has lived some sort of charmed life. With all of the articles and posts about the Charlottesville protests, he was left feeling as though he is now considered by many people to be part of some group of racist, bigoted, homophobic, despicable creatures that could only vaguely be labeled “humans.” This leads him to feel justified in stating his offense, and his anger at being lumped into this group.

And herein lies the danger of our current administration. Because we are now grouped into “us” and “them,” more than ever before, we are not only thinking about how we perceive ourselves. We are actively thinking about how we are perceived by others, and desperately attempting to ensure that others know into which group we fall. While it’s a normal human reaction, it detracts from the issues at hand, and makes those issues about ourselves when they might not necessarily be.

There are groups in our society who have ALWAYS felt a part of “them,” however that group is defined for individuals. There are people who are terrified of the police because they have always felt unjustly targeted. There are people who haven’t received calls for job interviews because their names don’t conform to whatever standard makes human resources comfortable. There are people who have been bullied because their skin is too dark, or their skin is too light. It’s important to understand that there are segments of humanity in our world who have had to work harder to achieve success, or even just live their lives. Recognizing this fact is not synonymous with some sort of admission that you have had an easy life, free of bullying or free of obstacles. It simply means understanding that there are obstacles placed in front of certain types of people because of the color of their skin, the texture of their hair, the clothes they wear - the list goes on and on.

We ALL have obstacles in our life to overcome. Why not help each other climb over them rather than ignoring those placed in front of others because it makes our own struggles feel disregarded? Sometimes…. Sometimes the struggles are not about you. Sometimes it’s more important to be empathetic to those around you, and try to make this world a better place for everyone, not just for ourselves. Just because there are those of us who have not experienced the insidious racism that is designed to keep an entire class of people “in their place” does not mean that those experiences can be diminished or ignored. Rather, it’s even more important that those who have not had the displeasure of being this type of target speak up, and let others know that they are heard. That someone cares, that not everyone is devoted to perpetuating this type of behavior.

With that said, light can be shed on those experiences and I like to think that work can be made to improve them without others feeling as though their ankles are being grabbed to be pulled back under the water. Lifting each other up does not need to mean pushing someone else down. There must be some way to rise together, and while I don’t have all the answers in that regard - I don’t think anyone does, and maybe clear-cut answers don’t even exist - I will always push and strive for all of us to reach whatever pinnacle makes each of us whole. My own success feels so much sweeter when I know that no one else had to suffer in my wake.

Are You a Good Parent?

I’ll apologize for the length of this post now, but I’ve given this topic a lot of thought over the past few years, and especially so over the last few months for quite a few reasons. I think we can all admit that each of us has his or her own ideas of what being a Good Parent (™) means, likely based on our experiences as children being raised through adulthood, as well as those we’ve had as parents ourselves.

My brother and I were incredibly fortunate to have wonderful parents, along with a wonderful childhood and upbringing. Of course, had you asked me at 15 whether my parents were amazing, I might have had a different answer, but perhaps that’s a good indication of just how great they were and are. They weren’t just effective parents separately; they worked really well together, and I think that’s an essential ingredient. My mom tended to be more strict, which made sense since she was tasked with the daily running of the household. My dad had the ability to come home after work and unwind a bit, and has always been the more outwardly “silly” of the two. When it came to the nitty-gritty, however, they always seemed to agree on the same foundation principles, and had the same priorities. From what I could tell, and what still seems to be the case, they always strove to raise good people. They stressed kindness to each other and to those around us, and encouraged us to look at the big picture: Were we happy? What were our goals in life, how could we reach them, and how could they help us to do so? Education was important, college was expected, but occasionally dyeing my hair purple, wearing ridiculous semi-handmade clothing, and now and then sitting on the roof outside my window to smoke a cigarette were taken in stride. We were also lucky enough that we had opportunities to travel as a family, sometimes to places of which I had never heard - Nevis for 2 weeks when I was 8, a tour of the breathtaking American West when I was a preteen (during which I locked the keys in our brand-new rented van - they were thrilled, I’m sure), then Europe when I was 15. My parents continue to be avid travelers, and seem to still have a sense of joy and wonder at the world around them. Through them, I have a greater sense of tolerance toward those of different cultures, and a love of history and the new adventures experienced by visiting new places.

My husband, Chris, as the youngest of 9 children (9!!!! Yikes!), seemed to have had a very different childhood than many of his siblings. In him I also see a profound kindness, a tolerance toward people different from him and those with differing opinions, and a love of discovering the world through travel and conversations with those he meets along the way. I have to think his parents did something right, although I never had the pleasure of meeting them since they passed away long before he and I met. While we don’t speak to many of his siblings anymore (several have died, but out of the others we only associate with his oldest brother), it certainly seems that their upbringing was vastly different from Chris’s, which is perhaps unsurprising as many of them were born quite close in age to each other, and Chris is the youngest by about 5 years. Many of his siblings were out of the house by the time he would have had the opportunity to get to know them, and they certainly seem to have wildly different interests and priorities in life from those instilled in Chris.

Before Chris and I got married, we had the typical pre-marriage counseling sessions with our Episcopal church priest. Our first task was to take an online quiz, of sorts - we each had the same quiz, but had to take it separately, and it was rather time-consuming. At our first official meeting with our rector, we got the results of our respective tests, and it was rather fascinating. As it turned out, we are incredibly compatible (surprise, surprise!); so much so that our priest kept giggling as she went over the results.

As Chris and I have compared our parenting experiences with our first spouses, it got me thinking that a similar quiz could be an incredibly useful tool for couples who want to become parents. Two people who have different ideas of what “good parenting” looks like are, at best, unlikely to present any sort of unified front to the kids they’re raising. At worst, and as is so often the case, the relationship implodes, dividing the family emotionally, and often physically.

So, what is good parenting? Is it buying the kids expensive gifts and sporting equipment to the detriment of paying one’s own mortgage until the home in which they’ve grown up goes into foreclosure, then literally referring to yourself as “Superdad” (actual example of a living human)? Is it purposely alienating your children from the other parent while justifying your actions as being in the children’s best interests (also an actual example of a living human - although I could admittedly condone this if the other parent is a drug addict/convicted child molester/actual Grizzly bear)? These are obvious examples - albeit, sadly, from Chris’s and my life experiences - but I implore anyone wishing to bring a human/multiple humans into the world to think, and think hard, about what parenting means to them. Discuss with your partner what type of parents you want to be, and make a commitment to yourselves and to each other that you won’t lose who you are together in your endeavors to raise a family. Children are important, but one day they will grow up and leave the nest (I mean… that’s the idea, at least); when it’s just the two of you again, will you still Know each other? Or will you have forgotten how to be husband and wife (or any other of the myriad iterations of coupledom) because you’ve spent so long wearing your “Parents” hats, and they’ve annealed themselves permanently to your heads? Live your lives. Raise your children. Don’t live your lives for or through your children.

If you decide to no longer be a couple, think long and hard about how you can raise the children you brought into the world to be the healthiest, happiest adults they can be. That means that sometimes, you have to put up with sitting through a dance recital that lasts approximately 53 years, or you have to resign yourself to the fact that cheerleading just isn’t little peanut’s bag, no matter how much you wish it was. And you absolutely don’t get to use them as a weapon against someone else.

Whatever your ideals are, be kind to each other. Be kind to your kids. Show them how to love themselves, love other people, and put something positive into the world. Beget goodness with goodness. It’s the best we can do.

I Love You, I Love Me...

I’m doing SO well with the whole “blogging on a regular basis” thing, huh? Oi vey. In my defense, life is beyond hectic between grad school, kids’ activities, work, and the new pony (to clarify: not MY pony, but I am part-leasing a wonderful Swedish warmblood a local barn and he is a delightful galoot), but at the end of the day, those are just excuses.

I saw something today that inspired me, and prompted me to write a few thoughts down. God bless social media. A friend of mine posted a short writing by Nikita Gill on Facebook earlier today:

"He drew her once.

Too pretty, too perfect,

like she was a work of art and she hated her

-- that beautiful girl he drew,

because her flaws are her journey.

Her slightly misaligned jaw

from ill fated punch,

her long battle with scars,

her nose that was

always a bit too big for her face.

Perhaps he sees her as flawless.

But she,

like a wild thing

which has been injured

but survived the hunt,

was more beautiful

with all her damage intact."

 

Perhaps I write too much about past and present relationships, but they’re what have always most profoundly affected my life, particularly over the last decade or so. Reading the words above were like a bit of a punch to the gut, as much as a punch to the gut could feel good.

Like the writer, I too know the discomfort that comes with being painted with a brush that suits someone else. For over a decade, I was put on a precarious pedestal, a pedestal that was destined to crumble. Imagine the anxiety caused by the knowledge that you could never be the image that your partner created, and waiting for him to realize the gravity of his error, never knowing when that day would come. Couple that with the anxiety of trying to hide all the aspects of yourself that were deemed ugly or unacceptable (and which, ironically, were often the best parts). I tried desperately to cram myself into the vaguely Liz-shaped container he had created, cutting off appendages in the process, becoming ever smaller and quieter. It’s been over five years since I threw out that container, and yet I still live with the scars it caused. I will always live with the scars, and quite frankly, I’m proud of them now, proud of coming through the pain, forever changed but, ultimately, for the better. Even now, I occasionally find myself searching for that container; as horribly uncomfortable as it was, it was my world for so long that it felt familiar. Not safe, but familiar. Trauma like that changes patterns and behaviors, and there is no telling how long it takes to stretch limbs that were caught tightly folded for so long. Now that I know how it feels to live free of someone else’s limits, I will never again put myself under someone’s thumb.


Friends, don’t ever let anyone else define you. We are all beautiful, amazing creatures of our own making. Allowing someone else to tell you how you’re perfect can be as damaging as allowing someone to tell you how you’re imperfect. Love yourselves, and let that love change and define you. Always be your whole selves. 

Worst. Blogger. Ever.

Oh, geez. Oh, man. So, I’ve got this fancy new website, and when I went to import my blog entries, I realized that I haven’t posted a darn thing since 2014. I am officially the worst. blogger. ever.

So here we are! At the risk of sounding a little conceited, I figure you’re all wondering what the heck I’ve been up to over the last year and change (assuming I have any readers other than Chris and my dad). The answer: LOTS O’ THINGS! ALL OF THEM!

Okay, maybe not ALL of them, but definitely myriad things. A veritable plethora.  New job! New school! New husband! I feel like that’s kind of a lot of awesome things. So, first: new job!

I left Morris James at the end of 2014, which was bittersweet, in a way. Like any larger firm, it had its hierarchy-related foibles, but overall, I can’t knock it. At the end of the day, though, the position in which I worked had been… shall we say…. overrepresented to me at the time of my interview and subsequent hiring conversations. I started leaving work feeling worse about myself at the end of each day. It was neither fulfilling nor work I could see myself doing long-term, and the hours just weren’t working for me in terms of getting my urchins picked up and fed in a reasonable time frame. So, with Chris’s blessing, I left that job with not a whole lot on the horizon other than the possibility of a paid gig as a communications director for a software startup, and a student loan overage to get me over the hump until something, anything, popped up. So, you know. Terrifying.

After a few months of having an exceptionally clean house (which was kind of amazing, I must say), I landed a part-time gig in a local law firm doing administrative work. Within a month or two, I became their paralegal, and 20 hours a week turned into 25, and then into 30 or more. I don’t like to toot my own horn, but I do draft a pretty kickass power of attorney. When one of the attorneys left to start her own practice, she made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, and here we are! Two crazy gals taking on the estate planning world by storm. Or, you know, sitting in an office and typing all day, but since drafting contracts and such makes me disturbingly giddy, I’m a happy girl.

But what about grad school, you query? Well, thank you so much for asking! Once I finish up my current semester, I’ll have three classes left, at which time I’ll have a super-fancy Master of Jurisprudence in Corporate Law. What I’ll do with that degree remains to be seen; my aim was to be a compliance officer, but my boss is working very hard to convince me to be her “work life partner,” as she calls it, so we’ll see where I end up. Regardless, it’s nice to have too many options than too few, so I’ll take it.

2015 was a pretty amazing year, but my very favorite thing was marrying my partner in crime and the love of my life. Not much more to be said. We had a small wedding in the chapel of my church, made promises to each other comprised of some standard vows as well as our own; I wore pink, and Chris wore a tie with kraken tentacles on it. An intimate dinner followed at our favorite local burger place, and we spent the next day leisurely wandering through New Hope (if you haven’t been there yet, for goodness sake, do yourself a favor and google map your way to Marsha Brown AND EAT AS MUCH PINEAPPLE SOUFFLE AS THEY WILL GIVE YOU). I’m not entirely sure if we had a honeymoon, but if we did, it was a long weekend motorcycling in West Virginia. In fact, yes. Yes, that was our honeymoon. Because I can’t think of a more perfect way to celebrate us.

Anywho, I don’t really believe in New Year’s resolutions, and anyway, it’s April. But I sure would like to actually post stuff more often than 18 months apart. Feel free to yell at me, faithful reader(s), if you check back and there is nothing new. Do me a favor and head over to my “artwork” link too, maybe that’ll give me a kick in the pants to get some stuff up there more often too!